“No,” she says. “I had no idea Kyle was involved. Not until you just told me that Breanna’s being blackmailed, and, by the way, how is that possible? The girl is a saint. What on earth can he have on her?”

Tension forms in my neck and I pop it to the right. “He has a picture of me and her together, and before you go there, don’t. We didn’t do anything.”

She smirks. “You must have been doing something, and go you for ‘not doing anything’ with the smart girl. I bet her family must be thrilled she’s not only into a Terror boy, but she’s dating the notorious Terror boy.”

“We’re friends.”

A “psh” leaves her. “You don’t have friends, but for shits and giggles, let’s say you are just friends—keep it that way. Don’t mess up that girl’s life by dragging her into the club.”

My patience level is depleting fast. “Who blackmailed you?”

“Promise no club involvement.”

“I already gave my word to Breanna.”

“Great, but you gave it to her for her situation. I want your word on my situation.”

Keeping a secret from the club regarding Breanna—I could justify that. She has no club involvement. But keeping a secret of who has caused Violet pain and misery, the secret I swore to tell the board the moment I found out—I’m entering near damnation. Good thing I’ve been teetering on this ledge for a while. “You have my word.”

Trusting I’ll stay true, she immediately answers, “Rob McEntire.”


A muscle in my jaw twitches and Violet shrinks. That’s the asshole she was making out with the night the Riot flew into town. “What was he blackmailing you for?”

Violet raises her chin and creates a fist with her fingers. “Something that I took the risk of not doing, and you saw how that blew up in my face.”

I’m a damn pot on the stove getting ready to boil. Violet’s smart. If she said sexual favors out loud, I would already be on my bike and would be seconds away from ripping his heart from his chest with my bare hands. “He’s still blackmailing you.”

She looks away now, at the tree, and her foot begins to tap. “I lost my chance at a scholarship out of this dump town over that picture. I was a finalist and they called and I was happy and Mom was happy and a few days after the picture went up the college called back and told me what they found on the internet and that I was no longer—” she uses her fingers to create quotation marks “—material that lived up to their standards. So, yeah, I said yes to Rob and in return he took the picture down.”

But it’s still out there. And other places now. She knows this. I know this, but like Kyle had warned Breanna, they probably had more.

“You should have come to me,” I say.

“I did!” Tears form in her eyes. “You demanded that we go to the club when I needed my friend. The moment I said a name, Chevy, Eli or Cyrus would have taken a gun to his head.”

“What makes you believe I won’t?” I ask. “I’m the crazy one, remember?”

“You’re emotional,” she says. “But you think before you leap. They don’t just leap—they go psychotic. Eli went to jail over a temper tantrum gone wrong and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of living in this damned town!”

My fingers curl in and out because the need is to shout. To throttle her because she knows this club is legit, that they never would have killed anyone, but then there’s a question in the back of my head. A lingering doubt. My mom. I have to swallow the hurt tightening my throat.

Something caused Violet to walk away from her family, and whatever that something is, I wonder if it’s on the same level of agony as my mother.

Violet hugs herself and she looks so damn pathetic that my chest aches. I swear under my breath, then wrap my arms around her. Her shoulders shake and each deep breath she takes to keep from crying causes the anger inside me to build. My heart breaks for her, for the friendship that’s been floundering this past year, and for how Breanna must also be emotionally crumbling.

“I’m going to fix this,” I say as I hold my best friend. “I promise I’m going to fix this for both you and Breanna.”


I AM NEVER using public Wi-Fi again. I researched what Razor told me last night after we hung up and it’s frightening how unsafe technology is. Razor divulged his scheme and I’ve been worrying since over this insane plan. He has the simple part. He sits back and types. I, on the other hand, have to speak with the devil.

Nervous adrenaline leaks into my system as the bell to the diner rings. I walk in and, as he promised, Razor’s in the corner working intently at his laptop and, like clockwork, Kyle is on the opposite side of the diner eating lunch with his friends.

This is what Razor has been doing for the past couple of weeks—following Kyle. Understanding his routines and rhythms. Kyle doesn’t seem to know that Razor has his life dissected and documented to the minute.

My cell vibrates. It’s Razor. Don’t look so terrified. He touches you and I’ll stick this dull steak knife through his skull.

Me: It’s not him touching me I’m afraid of.

Razor: Is it me you’re afraid of touching you? If so, I promise you’ll like it.

My temperature jumps to triple digits. Razor touching me. It hasn’t happened yet beyond a few careless brushes of his body against mine while in physics. Regardless, my imagination goes to places beyond him caressing my face or holding my hand and beyond PG-13. I suck in a breath to regain a logical train of thought. Me: I’m afraid he’ll find out what we are about to do.

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